


Fever

by MilesLibertatis



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Choking, M/M, References to Abuse, References to Character Death, people thought this was gonna be fluff, references to sexual abuse, they couldn't be more wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 05:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16866739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilesLibertatis/pseuds/MilesLibertatis
Summary: During their stay at Abraham Dawson's house, Shorter unexpectedly falls ill. Yut-Lung brings him some rice porridge but it doesn't quite go as he had planned.





	Fever

**Author's Note:**

> After three months of struggling I finally managed to finish this fic! Based on the prompt "Fever" as requested by Noel. Immense shoutout to Soda and Jen for beta'ing and helping me with brainstorming. Seriously, without their help I never would have finished it. 
> 
> I'm 100% always down to yell about soy sauce on tumblr (hi-im-secretly-satan) and maybe after the season finale on twitter (soysaucejar) too so feel free to hit me up! I have some headcanon posts on tumblr too.

When Yut Lung had gotten his orders, he had had expectations.

His subject could have been a loyal dog, refusing to cooperate and yelling about how he’d rather commit suicide than betray his fellow boss. If that were the case, it would be easy to have him killed and make it look like he had taken his own life. That would definitely rile up the infamous Ash Lynx.

His subject could have a grudge against that sly bastard and be rearing to get back at him. That would be even easier to work with, although over-enthusiasm, he knew, was prone to sabotaging operations of this delicacy. Previous missions had taught him that harsh lesson.

He had expected many things.

However he hadn’t expected Shorter Wong to be _so damn attractive_. His purple mohawk and eyebrow piercing radiated courage and strength, hinting at a rough attitude befitting a gang leader, in stark contrast to his ever-present grin and puppy-like enthusiasm. He hadn’t expected just _how easy_ it was to rile him up with threats whispered when no one was watching, reminders of how all of his actions were monitored and controlled, how he was completely at Yut Lung’s mercy. The heated looks Shorter directed at him, filled with rage and disgust, left him burning for something he couldn’t quite identify. It was mesmerising to watch him shake with helpless anger, clench his fists in rage, itching to close those fingers around his throat, to make it all stop. At times, Yut Lung wanted those fingers around his throat, to have Shorter touch him, to feel something, _anything at all_.

He hadn’t expected him to fall ill either.

So when his old maid told him that Shorter had collapsed with a fever, he had expected to be pissed at the unexpected turn of events—this really threw his plans into disarray—but instead he found himself distressed. He managed to feign impassiveness as Suk-Leui finished her report and went to make some rice porridge on his orders. He was tired. By now he’d had to feign impassiveness so much the line between feigning and his real feelings had become so blurred he wasn’t sure how much of his actual feelings were left.

Taking a moment to quiet the sound of his blood rushing through his veins, he sank down on the edge of his bed. _Stay calm_ , he told himself. This was nothing to get so worked up about. It was probably just the flu, nothing life-threatening. It’d be over before he knew it. He traced his lower lip with his thumb.

Maybe this was his chance. To show Shorter that he was just another victim of this cursed endless cycle of using and abusing that resulted from being born in the mafia, just like him. To show Shorter that he cared. He immediately berated himself for even daring to think this could work out positively, but really, was it too much to ask to be wanted in the same way he wanted someone else? Someone to cling to when he felt like he was drowning in hate and hungry stares and unwanted hands claiming his body for their own?

 

When he entered the room, Shorter was asleep. His breathing was heavy, his face flushed and his usually carefully styled mohawk was mussed up and unkempt. It was a frightening yet strangely attractive sight. His thoughts strayed, unbidden, to a more impure scene in a purer world, one where they would be free of the cruel chains of hatred that held them down. He willed them away. Reality was harsh and there was nothing he could do about it except fight it from the shadows. He knew he could not save Shorter. It was foolish to even think about it.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself for the undoubtedly unpleasant but strangely addicting interaction he slid back into his cold and manipulative façade and made his way over to the bed. He placed the steaming bowl of porridge on the nightstand and, after a short moment of considering the chair, sat down on the edge of the bed.

The sudden dip in the mattress woke Shorter from his slumber. Yut Lung watched as his hostage blinked and tried to get his bearings through the fever induced fog in his mind. He felt a jolt when those dark brown eyes found his, still soft and pleasant, until they realised who they were looking at and they hardened. Shorter’s expression turned feral and—it probably would’ve been in a flash if he hadn’t been crippled by that fever—managed to pull a knife from under his pillow and lunged at him.

Yut Lung couldn’t help but smile, almost wanting to let him just to see how far he’d get, but instead slid his fingers around Shorter’s knife-wielding wrist, twisting it until the weapon fell, his other hand on his shoulder pushing him on his back. His long hair fell down like a curtain, and with his knee digging into the side of Shorter’s hips he had him perfectly caged. “Come now,” he drawled, lazy smirk dancing on his lips and eyes sparkling with mirth. “That’s no way for an ill person to behave.”

Shorter growled and struggled weakly to break free. “You...” he snarled, voice hoarse from coughing. Yut Lung felt another jolt go through his body at the sound of it. The sight of him flushed and panting underneath him did little to calm him down either. He let his eyes take it all in and wished he could have what he wanted for once. His gaze wandered from his eyes—deep and dark and surprisingly brown—to his piercing—seeming to sparkle in the dim lighting—to his nose—big for an Asian but beautiful—to his parted lips. He wanted to lean down and claim those for himself, wanted it to be reciprocated.

He wanted.

“Hush,” Yut Lung muttered, pressing a long finger to Shorter’s lips; those tempting lips. “Wouldn’t want your dear Ash to hear. Or _Eiji_ , for that matter.” Shorter flinched at the mention of his Asian friend and averted his eyes.

The irrational feeling of betrayal suddenly made it hard to breathe, like someone had bound his chest in too-tight bandages. His earlier thoughts of wanting to claim Shorter for himself, both physically and emotionally, turned to anger. He wanted to break him. Have him crumble beneath him, fall apart into tiny pieces and rearrange them all into someone new, someone who would really _see_ him. Who would want him back and hold him and tell him he was good enough. Was that really too much to ask? Suppressing his feelings once more, he let his hand wander to brush Shorter’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “What’s this?” He cooed, hoping his inner turmoil wouldn’t make his voice tremble. “Is that air-headed boy that special to you?”

Shorter looked back up at him with resentment burning in his eyes. “You’d never understand,” he sneered and coughed.

Yut Lung narrowed his eyes and leaned back a bit so he wouldn’t catch whatever it was his hostage was hacking up. “And why is that?” He asked icily.

“Because you don’t know love.”

Yut Lung felt his blood run cold. He didn’t know love? Shorter had no right to make false accusations like that. He knew love, but the only love he had ever known was taken from him by his brothers. He could still hear his mother’s anguished screams when he closed his eyes at night.

But there was a tiny spark of hope deep inside his chest. Would Shorter be willing to show him what love was? Would he be willing to take his cold and neglected heart and warm it in his hands? Hold him in his strong embrace and treat him like he was his most precious treasure?

Shorter continued and his hopes were crushed. “I pity you. You hide behind a mask of indifference and you’re scared to let people in. You only know how to manipulate and wreak havoc. It must be such a lonely life.” He actually dared looking remorseful. His eyes were still hard, he hadn’t let his guard down, but they were sad and sincere. Compassionate.

Something in Yut-Lung snapped. He surged forward and his fingers closed around Shorter’s neck. “I don’t need your pity!” He cried. “Don’t look at me like you understand my life! What it’s like to be used and abused, molded into the perfect image of the woman _they_ loathed.” His voice shook and he choked back a sob. Underneath him Shorter froze and his eyes widened in shock. “I don’t want this life either, Shorter Wong. I’m just waiting for the day they hit me too hard, kick me in the wrong place or strangle me too tight…” His eyes burned. He blinked and tears rolled down his face, landing on Shorter’s cheeks. A cruel mirror to just a week ago, when their positions had been reversed.

But then he felt a warm hand on his cheek. He froze and his vision came back into focus. Shorter was looking up at him with those damned brown eyes, soft and full of sorrow. He tried to say something but nothing came out except for a few rasping gasps. As if burned, Yut-Lung let go, wanting to create some space between them. But the hand on his cheek was so tender, he did not want to lose that warmth. Shorter coughed violently as air rushed back into his lungs.

Suddenly scared of what Shorter would say he scrambled off the bed. With his back towards his hostage, he wiped his eyes and cleared his throat. “Eat the porridge while it's still hot.” His voice trembled with suppressed tears. “Don't worry, it's not poisoned.” He shot Shorter one last look before heading towards the door. But when he put his hand on the handle he heard his raspy voice.

“I can't fathom what you're going through. It must be hell.”

His knuckles turned white from how tightly he was holding the door handle.

Shorter coughed again. “Do you really think this is the right way to deal with it?”

He gritted his teeth. Shorter had no right to talk to him like that. Ignoring the question still hanging in the air he opened the door and left the room.

His throat was sore. He must have caught whatever Shorter had after all.

 


End file.
